Snow
by Taivasalla
Summary: Drabbles centered around various characters, and snow. Starting with Ugly John, BJ, and Frank.
1. Snow 1: Ugly John

_Author's note: A series of (very) short pieces about the 4077__th._

_These are not chronological, or meant to fit together. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing from MASH, and am making no profit or anything else from these._

_Second Author's Note: Review please? _:)

Snow #1: Ugly John

Ugly John looked down at his cards. "I fold."

Trapper and Hawkeye hunched over their own hands, regarding each other warily. The pot had twenty-two dollars in it. John took another gulp of his drink. He didn't want to win at cards today. He just wanted to get drunk and pass out.

Hawkeye and Trapper were coping in their own ways. Everyone knew how hard it hit the doctors when they lost a patient. No one ever asked him, though.

Sometimes they were conscious before he put the boys under. Sometimes they talked to him, before he put the black mask over their nose and mouth and watched their eyes flutter shut.

"I want to see the snow, Doc_," the boy had said. His face was shining with sweat, his eyes wide with pain. "_It's snowing, isn't it_?" John just patted the boy on the shoulder, twisting knobs on the machine. "_I've never seen it before. Is it nice?_" John slid the mask over his face. _

"_It is, son, it is. You'll see for yourself, soon." The boy's eyelids drifted down. "Hawkeye, hurry up!" John watched the boy's vital signs, irregular, fading. _

"_I'm coming," Hawkeye called, stripping off his bloody gloves and hurrying over as the nurse snapped a new pair over his hands. He glanced at the damage. "Scalpel." He began an incision._

"_I'm losing the pulse, Hawkeye."_

_The tall surgeon swore, and began pumping the boy's chest._

_John waited, emotions raging in his chest. He squeezed the black bag hanging to his left on Hawkeye's count. After a minute, he let go of the mask. "It's too late, Hawk," he muttered. The boy's eyes stayed shut. _

_Hawkeye stepped back. "Damn." John bent his head and didn't say anything. Hawkeye peeled off his gloves, stained red from their brief contact with the boy's blood. "Damn it." Trapper called him away._

_John watched as the nurses picked up the stretcher with the body on it and carried it out of the OR. A new soldier was placed before him, drifting mercifully on the edge of consciousness. John adjusted the anesthetics and fit the mask in place. _

"Ha!" Hawkeye shouted, scooping up the pot. "Flush, I win!"

John pushed back his chair. "Deal me out."

Outside the night was dark, a layer of clouds obscuring the stars. John stood outside the surgeons' tent, his face raised to the black. _God protect you,_ he thought,_ wherever you are._ Something tickled his nose, soft and cold. Then they were falling all around him, tiny white flecks that landed on his arms and in his mustache and melted in rivulets down his cheeks. He brushed at the snowflakes in his eyes. You didn't cry in Korea.


	2. Snow 2: BJ

Snow #2: BJ

Father Mulcahy walked through the ward, the stack of letters in his hand drawing eyes like a magnet. "O'Reilly," he called, handing Radar an envelope. "Klinger, Hunnicutt."

BJ took the envelope gently, and pushed it carefully into a pocket. He would read it after his rounds were over.

He pushed open the door of the ward, holding his army-issue jacket over his head. Outside, cold rain was sheeting down from the heavy grey sky. The wind was loud, a violent wailing that buffeted BJ mercilessly as he fought the short way to the Swamp. BJ wondered if maybe it wasn't the wind, but the voices of the boys they had lost here.

The letter was crumpled but dry when he finally opened it. He waited for a moment, savoring the sight of the creased white paper, then unfolded the message from home.

_Dear BJ,_

_Erin saw her first snowfall yesterday! It was amazing for our climate. The branches of all the trees and the roofs of all the houses are covered in snow; it looks like a postcard came to life. Erin and I built a snowman in the yard. When we finished, she wanted to put a stethoscope on it. So I brought an old one of yours out, and she hung it around the snowman's neck, and said it was Daddy. Mrs. Hanna, who lives next door, took this picture for us. Erin has grown so big!_

_We miss you, BJ. Erin says to tell you she loves you. Everything is going well for us here. Is there anything I can send you? Do you need winter clothes?_

_Christmas is still a month and a half away, but Erin already wants to get a Christmas tree. She is very excited about decorating it, so we made paper decorations today._

_Do you remember our first Christmas together? Up north, when the trees were so beautiful? That's almost what it looks like today. But without you, I can't seem to see it the same way. You told me it was like the world was a cake, and the snow was frosting. And then you bit a tree branch. Do you remember?_

_I miss you BJ. I love you more than anything. Stay safe. _

_Love forever, _

_Peg_

BJ put the letter down. Snow. His little baby had seen snow for the first time. He could just see her, dancing, as the soft white flakes drifted down, trying to catch one on her tongue.

His eyes prickled. What he would give to be there, now. But he blinked back the tears. You didn't cry in Korea.


	3. Snow 3: Frank

Snow #3: Frank Burns

They all think I don't care. I don't, really. It's not my fault, and it's not my problem.

But I am human. It does hurt.

I'm not weak like Pierce. I don't obsess over every life I cannot save. I feel sorry, and I move on. Otherwise, I'd be crippled like he is. Pierce could never understand me. Never. He's too simple; a death breaks his heart, he can't accept failure, he drinks, he flirts, he is subject to all the basest impulses a human can be.

So why am I standing on the edge of a minefield? The wood of the signpost is rough, splintery. It's cold; winter in Korea usually is. The cold is rain, though, not snow like I'm used to. Pierce could never understand the beauty of snow; its complexity of design, its allusions to the greatest of arts, they all would fly right over his head.

Rain is more of Pierce's weather, I would think. Unbeautiful, base, no form or structure worth mentioning. His disregard for authority or order is just the same, a miserable and vile weather that brings down the spirits of all involved.

And Margaret is the sun; she who brightens my days in this hell-hole, she who supports me and lifts me up. Without her, I could not last in this place.

But today, today her words rang hollow in my ears. It does hurt me, whether they see it or not. Whether I will admit to it or not. I do not want it to hurt. I do not want to sink to that level. So why am I standing on the edge of a minefield?

Maybe God has the answers. Maybe if I asked Him, I could understand. I have searched for Him in this camp, I have gone faithfully to Father Mulcahy, and attended Mass, but I cannot find Him here. Maybe, in this one untouched corner, I can finally find my answers, my own peace. Surely God understands order, and will set my spinning world straight. If I can find Him. Maybe I should try, here, now. Only a few steps, I suppose. Really, why not?

"Frank. You ought to come inside, it's cold out here."

"I'm not cold, Pierce. Mind your own business."

"Come get some coffee."

"Well, maybe some coffee would be nice..."


	4. Snow 4: Henry

Snow #4: Henry

I don't know why my girls are making snowflakes in the summer. But I suppose I can't criticize, being ten thousand miles away and all. But really, isn't fishing more of a summer thing than paper snowflakes?

They're rather pretty, though, the ones they sent me. They have all these little triangles and diamond holes and pointy bits sticking out. Radar says he used to make them too; they make him feel young again.

"Ra­–"

"Yes, sir?"

"–dar! Damn it, Radar, stop doing that. I need to see–"

"The reports, sir, yes, sir. Sign here, sir."

"Thanks, Radar."

Funny thing, Radar, you are young. You should still be at home, cutting paper snowflakes. Well, maybe you're not that young. But really, it makes me kind of sad when you appear at my elbow, and I realize that you may know the army inside out, but what kind of life is that really? I just can't wait to get out and cut paper snowflakes with my girls. What will you do? Will you leave when the time comes? Will you do the same thing to some other boss as you do to me? Do army regs carry over into farming or factories?

Maybe you'll become a neurosurgeon. Hey, anything is possible.

"Radar! Radar?"

"Sir, do you need me, sir?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to tell you you're doing a great job."

"Oh, well, thank you, sir."

Hey, if you can forget to anticipate, maybe you will be a neurosurgeon.


	5. Snow 5: Trapper

Snow #5: Trapper

_Smack._

Frank squealed, his hands clutching his back. Trapper stifled a laugh and ducked quickly behind the green canvas of the tent, dusting the snow from his hands.

"Who did that?" Frank shouted, his high voice rough with anger.

Trapper grinned. If only Hawkeye were here to see this. But the other surgeon had left for an aid station yesterday. Trapper's grin faltered. They hadn't had word since this morning, when the station's radio had been shot out. Radar had been on when it happened, and had been in quite a state when he told Blake and Trapper the news.

But if Trapper couldn't help Hawkeye, he could at least have a little fun. The tall man bent down to scoop up another handful of snow.

"You! Stop, soldier!" Trapper leaned around the corner of the tent, looking for the victim of Frank's anger.

A nurse was leading a patient around the compound, letting him get his first breath of fresh air since surgery. The boy was young and looked frail in the navy blue hospital robe, his right arm wrapped in a thick plaster cast and half his head covered in bandages. Trapper remembered Blake operating on him; the boy had gotten caught under an overturned jeep and his whole right side had been busted up.

Frank had pushed the nurse aside and grabbed the front of the boy's robe. "That's a court martial offence, soldier!"

The boy gaped at him. "S-sir?" he stuttered.

"Don't pretend you don't know, private. I know what you did."

Trapper stepped out from behind the tent. "What are you doing, Frank?"

"This private threw a piece of ice at me," Frank said, his tone affronted and slightly whiny.

_Ice ball, hah_, Trapper thought. _Wimp_. "Look at him, Frank. He couldn't throw a snowball worth a nickel. Nurse, did he throw a snowball?"

The nurse shook her head. "No, sir. We were just walking."

"See, Frank? Now leave him alone."

Frank's beady little eyes flicked between them. "If it wasn't him, then who?"

"I don't know, Frank. Why don't you go start an investigation."

Frank glared at him. "What are you doing here anyways, McIntyre?"

"Sleeping, Frank."

The major looked at him in confusion. "Huh?"

Trapper turned away, heading for the Swamp. He might as well make good on that lie.


	6. Snow 5, Part 2: Trapper

Snow #5: Trapper 

Part 2

Trapper was lying on his cot, thinking of nasty things to do to Frank. He had directed his mind there to avoid thinking about his daughters and his wife. He was in one of those moods where you're hanging on the edge of depression, and he didn't want Frank, sitting stiffly at the desk, to see him cry. He reached blindly for his martini glass, only to find it dry when he tipped it towards his mouth. He swung his legs off the cot and stumbled to the still. Frank turned to watch him, and opened his mouth for some moral judgment.

He was interrupted by the sound of a jeep. Trapper dropped his glass, alcohol spilling over the table, and rushed outside. It was snowing again, flakes merging as they hit the slush already coating the ground. Was it them? Were they back? Yes! His heart lifted in relief. He saw Margaret in the front, and a corpsman behind the wheel. Where was Hawkeye? A pair of boots stuck out the side of the jeep; a body was lying face up in the back. Trapper jogged through the slush to the jeep, which had stopped outside the tent. Margaret looked exhausted; she was shivering and covered in mud and half-melted snow.

He hailed her, and swung around the hood to reach Hawkeye. "Hawkeye!" he shouted in welcome, but when he finally peered down at his friend, the greeting died on his lips. A blanket warmed Hawkeye's shoulders, but his eyes were closed, his face pale and smeared with dirt. What caught Trapper's eyes and arrested his breathing, however, was the bright red stain on his chest. Hawkeye's green jacket, buttoned up to his chin, was damp, soaked in blood. Trapper placed shaking fingers on his friend's neck, dreading the touch.

The slow beating steadied him, and he hurried around to the back, from where he could reach Hawkeye's wound. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. "He's okay," Margaret said wearily. "Just sleeping."

"But his chest—" Trapper began.

"It's not his blood," the major told him. "It's not his blood." She swayed on her feet. Trapper held her arm to steady her, but she put a hand on the jeep and reached to unbutton Hawkeye's jacket. Underneath, the army shirt was smeared with red, but not saturated in the way the top layer was. Trapper let out a sigh of relief, and his heart began to return to normal.

The major helped the captain carry the unconscious man into his tent, where Trapper laid him out on his cot to sleep. Margaret pulled a scratchy blanket over him. Pierce's eyes didn't even flicker.

"Was it bad?" Trapper asked quietly.

She nodded, the scent of burning and blood filling her nostrils again. "There were so many," Margaret murmured. "And they just kept coming."

Frank escorted her to her own tent, and Trapper was left alone, gazing down at the man he had thought was dead. He still wore the blood soaked jacket, and the sight twisted Trapper's insides. He left the tent, closing the wooden door carefully behind him. The sky was grey, the faint circle of sun that had glowed through when he had attacked Frank with packed snow was gone. He walked through the swirl of white to the mess tent; he wasn't one for standing still. The flakes fell on his hair and tickled his nose. He shivered. They just kept coming.


End file.
